


Match (1)

by drowningalaska



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Belts, F/M, France (Country), Smut, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-24
Updated: 2019-09-24
Packaged: 2020-10-27 08:40:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20757503
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/drowningalaska/pseuds/drowningalaska
Summary: Signing up to Tinder? Bad idea.Signing up to Tinder in France? Maybe not.Your everyday filth inspired by one five hour long discord freak out.





	Match (1)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't know why I'm like this honestly

After one too many mediocre bottles of french wine and seductively overpriced cheese dinners you’d made what some would call a fatal mistake. Tinder.  
A weeping cesspit of lonely hearts, people selling themselves in much the same way the delicatessen had sold you your cheese this afternoon. The heavy stone of shame that sinks deeply into the pit of your stomach is _ less _ to do with the app and _ more _ to do with your inability to form any decent human connection.  
Paris had been your home for the better part of the last six months, and in spite of that, you’d managed to make friends with a suspiciously short list of people.  
1\. Victor, the store manager at your local delicatessen, Raffinati. An unbelievably kind man who spoke french at a pace you could only understand out of familiarity.  
2\. The store manager’s wife, Margot, who spoke even quicker than her husband despite hailing from a half size town whose borders were the sea and a dust bowl, way up somewhere on the east coast of Australia.

That summed up the extent of those you could respectively call your _ friends _, unless you counted the bi-weekly calls from your hair brained publicist or your cat, who spent more time sleeping than anything else. 

  
Bringing your legs up underneath you on your lounge, you flick through your camera roll, trying to put together the type of person you are through a handful of photos. You settle on a couple shots of you at the retro movie theatre a few weeks back, a couple of you around your apartment and a flirty shot of your legs hanging over the side of your oversized bathtub.  
Realistically, this tells people nothing, but tinder isn’t the type of app for _ getting to know people. _

Fingers hovering over the keyboard across the bottom of your phone as you lean back and try and think of something catchy but not atrocious. ‘I need someone to watch Bladerunner with me” 

Flicking through your apparently countless options, you swipe more than forty chic French die hards left before you come across one you pause on. 

45, David. Make it worth my time. 

Your propensity for older men has you interested already, and the single half shot of his face shows a brilliantly clear blue eye and a ruinously sharp jawline. The cable knit jumper he’s wearing looks soft, hugs tight around the swell of his arms. Shit. 

You swipe right.  
Nothing. Of fucking course.  
  
You continue flicking past the men and women of tinder for another half an hour before you realise you’re not even _ looking _ any more, and switch the phone off in a depressed huff, the pleasant buzz from the last glass of wine beginning to dwindle.

Tossing your phone onto the lounge seat beside you you stand gingerly before stretching your hands up towards the ceiling, toes curling into the soft carpet beneath your coffee table.  
Barely lifting your feet up off the floor as you make your way to your bedroom, fingertips ghosting across the soft fur of your cat along the way.  
You catch your reflection in the mirror in the bathroom as you brush your teeth, and dark circles sit low underneath your eyes, lips chapped and dry. Your diet of almost only wine and dairy items is obviously not enough to subsist on, and you make a mental note to add some fruit or something to your basket next time you go shopping. 

The heavy blankets are soft against the skin of your throat as you draw them up over you, and sleep takes your conscious mind before you can count to ten. 

You should be writing your book.  
You should be at home adding more chapters to that damn book, considering it was the only reason anyone even spoke to you anymore. Up until your book had soared up to number two on the charts three years ago you hadn’t even been able to scrape a call back from your own mother.  
Now all anyone ever spoke to you about was the _ next _one. Hounding you ever and ever closer to your early grave. 

You’re currently occupying a seat in a busy Turkish coffee shop, watching the patrons mill about you like fish along coral, mumbling and shouting over each other in a collective din that somehow takes the edge off your near constant state of anxiety.  
  
The miniature cup and round bowl of Keşkül sits in front of you, and you take a quick snap of the treat to post to instagram later, the velvet texture of the pudding contrasting beautifully against the colour of your coffee.  
You’re quietly thankful that your success allows you to spend most of your time people watching and partaking in the vibrant life of Paris, including indulging your sweet tooth at half past nine in the morning.  
It’s been three days since you downloaded tinder and you hadn’t gotten a single notification, which honestly wasn’t surprising, once you put an ounce of thought into it. You’d only swiped right on one person.  
_ One person with a jawline sculpted by the gods _ , you half heartedly grumble to yourself.  
Your phone buzzes in your hand and you absentmindedly flick the notification up and away, trying to put your attention into sculpting this fantastic instagram post.

The rest of the day is a blur of window shopping and confectionaries, ending with you in Raffinati yet again.  
Three bottles of wine tap absently against each other in your bags as you meandre home, watching the light coalesce into shadows across the faces of the buildings that line the streets along your path. 

The fading sunlight glitters on the windows of your apartment building as you jog up the stairs, sliding your keycard across the reader and propping the door open with your knee before sliding inside. 

You put a depressing amount of effort into dinner, even going as far as making your own pasta for your ravioli, even though it basically falls apart once you start cooking it.  
It’s semi healthy, at the very least, and you pair it with half a bottle of wine and plans to binge netflix in your living room while you wait for inspiration to strike you. 

It doesn't, and you end up putting something on in the background whilst you listlessly scroll through the notifications on your phone, replying to emails and lying to your publisher about when the next chapter will be submitted by when you see it.  
Tinder. (1) Match. 

Hm.

You touch the notification and watch as the flame insignia swirls before clearing the screen, and then there it is, a little red bubble with a tiny little 1 inside it. One message. Christ.  
Incredibly aware of your seemingly inadequate social skills, you open the message, gracing the sender with a nice little ‘read’ notification. Crap.  
“I’d love to watch Bladerunner with you. There’s a showing at Le Champo this Saturday, if you would like to accompany me?”  
  
The offer is deliciously tempting, but completely unreasonable.  
“A brilliant offer, but I know nothing about you.” You hit send and immediately take your bottom lip between your teeth. Even though the offer is one of the best things you’ve heard in weeks, you’re not desperate enough to agree to meet a complete stranger for a movie.  
You quietly ponder if he’s french or not as you go back to your emails, barely getting through two of them before another notification slides down over the top of your screen.  
Clicking it takes you straight back to the messages.  
“Well, today is Monday, so that gives me four days to get to know a beautiful woman before she accepts my invitation, no?”  
Well. He’s not wrong. Blindingly confident, but definitely not wrong.  
You spend the next couple of hours sending messages back and forth, learning that David is on long service leave, and that he’s a part of the police force back in Detroit, Michigan. You learn that he can play guitar, has an allergy to blueberries, and has a wicked sense of humour.  
You climb into bed that night with a bright grin splashed across your face, and it’s still there when you roll out of bed the next morning.  
  
You trade mobile numbers with him, saving him first under “Jawline of God”, and later under David Allen.  
Hours pass, interrupted by photos swapped back and forth of what’s happening with your separate days, snug coffee shops and baked goods, sunlight glittering across steeped architecture and brilliantly lit stained windows.  
Conversation is easy and unpressured, and a weight starts to settle in your gut, waiting for the other shoe to drop.  
It doesn’t, and by the time Saturday rolls around the weight in your stomach turns to wings, and you wander the shopping district feeling sick with nervous anxiety.  
Le Champo was closer to high end than what you were really comfortable with, but showings of movies that were released in 1982 were rare and coveted, being 60 years old now.  
Getting to see a limited showing with someone like David? Even more coveted. To you, at least.  
  
Hours finally culminate with you choosing a mid calf length dress the colour of red wine, a fluffy black parka and side split boots. Glancing at yourself one last time in the mirror just inside your front door, you tuck a stray lock of hair behind your ear and check to make sure there’s no lipstick on your teeth before latching the door behind you and heading out. 

An automated cab takes you all but a couple hundred metres from the cinema, the grand stone work that surrounds the entrance is but a glimpse of the old world wonder that it is.  
A man stands at the entrance to the venue, and without a pre-purchased ticket there’s no way that you’ll gain entry to the exclusive spot.  
Standing awkwardly to the side, you bury your hands into the pockets of your parka and scan the street in hopes of recognising your date. The thought that you could very well be stood up makes you feel stressed as you stand on your own, watching couples slowly make their way over to the usher, who scans the barcode on their phones and pulls back the floor length velvet curtain.  
  
“Excuse me, pretty lady” floats over your shoulder, a dark timbre that makes the hair on the back of your neck stand a little straighter in the frigid winter air.  
Turning your head, you’re met with the most striking man you’ve ever set eyes on in your life, and your mouth pops open in a little o of surprise.  
“Jawline”, you blurt out before you can stop yourself, and the brilliant red flush that rushes up over the skin of your face and neck is almost as humiliating as your gaff. 

David rubs his hand over his jaw and grins at you, immediately easing the tension that seems to weigh down the air around you.  
  
“Did I miss a bit when I shaved?” he asks, smirking dangerously, and it’s all you can do to not choke on your own spit. 

“Nhh-uh”, you manage to squeak out, screaming at yourself internally to _ pull yourself the fuck together. _  
David’s smirk is full blown now, and his eyes crinkle at the sides in a way that suggests the motion is unfamiliar and yet so very welcoming. Your own lips pull up into your own grin, and his eyes flick down to your mouth and back to your eyes so quickly that you’d have missed it, had you not been staring at him like a fool.  
He stands back to give you a full once over, and your blush returns full force before he’s finished.  
“You look ethereal”, he says quietly as he reaches out a hand for you to take.  
You slip your hand into his, his skin rough against your own, gripping you tightly as he leads you over towards the entrance.  
  
Less than twenty minutes later you find yourself tucked into a plush seat in the dimly lit cinema, a huge bucket of popcorn balanced on your knees as David settles himself and the bottle of crisp white wine and two glasses into place.  
Lights dimming, the first couple of previews start to flick up on the enormous screen in front of you, and you glance over out of the corner of your eye to see David watching you intently. Turning your head gently, you give him a lopsided smile, passing the bucket of popcorn over into his lap.  
  
You mouth the words along with the actors on screen, reaching over absently to dig your hand into the popcorn, your fingertips barely ghosting the top before it’s pulled away from your outstretched fingers abruptly.  
Shooting him a frustrated look, you reach further over towards the bucket only to have it pulled away again. You’re confused, and it only gets worse when you see the cheeky look on his face. _ Right. _  
You lean back into your chair sharply, partially irritated and partially curious to see where this date with a serial snack thief could possibly go.  
His hand rises up in front of your face, a piece of popcorn held between two fingers, but when you go to take it he pulls it back towards his chest. Hmph.

The next time his hand comes into your personal space you snatch at the piece, quick but not quick enough, and you’re impressed by the speed of his reflexes. At this point there’s only one option. Ignore him.  
You focus your eyes back onto the screen, watching as the replicants aggressively interrogate Hannibal Chew when his hand comes up in front of you again, moving towards your mouth slowly.  
A glimpse out of your peripherals tells you that he’s watching you avidly, and you can see no reason not to play his game right back.  
  
You open your mouth.  
  
The look that crosses David’s face could be put under a category for _ dangerous things _ as he gently places the piece of popcorn in your mouth, and you wait until his fingers are away to close your mouth around the deliciously salty snack, feeling the flavour melt across your tongue.  
Bringing your attention back to the movie playing out in front of you, you allow him to feed you piece after piece, occasionally sipping on the wine that he originally poured for you.  
At this point, you could probably assume that your date had spent more than half of the movie watching you, and when he pops the next piece of popcorn into your open mouth his fingers don’t move away in time to escape the way you use your lips and tongue to take it further into your mouth.  
  
Turning your head to watch him, you can't help but notice the way his hand doesn’t seem as steady as it did before.  
David brings up another piece, and you make eye contact as you let your mouth pop open, moving your head forwards to take a little more than the treat inside this time.  
Sucking gently on the tip of his pointer finger, you swirl your tongue around the digit, maintaining your eye contact as you taste the salty butter from his finger, the skin around his eyes tightening.  
When he pulls his hand away from your face, the suction you were applying makes a soft popping noise as his finger leaves your mouth, sliding down over your bottom lip as his eyes darken.  
  
Reaching over to your glass of wine, you dip two fingers into the cool liquid before bringing them up to his mouth, sliding them over his lips before they part to allow you access.  
His tongue is hot against the pads of your fingers, cheeks hollowing as he sucks the sweet liquid from your fingers softly. You go to pull your hand back, heat building in your chest as a furious blush rises up your chest and across your face, a gasp leaving you as he clamps his teeth down into your skin just below your first knuckles.  
As you pull against his bite, his head comes with your hand, releasing your fingers just in time to pull you into a feverish kiss, your bodies twisting towards each other as you slide a hand up into his hair, tugging roughly.  
The people around you start to make noises of dissent as you demonstrate just how desperate you both are, basically dry humping each other in the crowded cinema.  
  
His fingers tangle in your hair as he moves his mouth down to your ear, placing soft kisses along your jaw on the way.  
“How about we take this somewhere else, huh?”, his voice barely a whisper against the whorl of your ear, and you nod frantically, practically knocking over your wine as he stands and pulls you along with him to the aisle.  
Out of the heavy doors and into the slightly better lit foyer, you allow him to pull you aside, the heat pooling low in your lower stomach to an almost feverish pitch.  
  
David all but drags you into the handicapped toilet, flicking the lock down behind him 

You smile, and your lips feel swollen and bruised, the wicked look on his face making you brave as you slide your hands down over your hips and begin to bunch the soft fabric up in your hands, revealing your knees, your thighs, the fact you’re not wearing any panties.  
Leaning back against the cool tiles behind you, you widen your stance and lift one foot up to rest on the lip of the toilet, one hand reaching down to brush against your clit as you quite literally bring the man in front of you down to his knees, watching him shuffle over to you, bracing both hands against your upper thighs as he looks up at you from between your legs.  
He presses his lips against the top of your mound, seemingly speaking to your outrageously wet cunt as he runs his fingers across your smooth, shaved skin.  
“So smooth,” he whispers against you, “such a gorgeously soft pussy you have here”  
Your inner walls clench at his words, and you press your upper back further into the icy cold tiles in an effort to get yourself closer to his face.  
“Uh uh, you desperate little thing,” he murmurs up to you, bringing his eyes up to meet your own, and you’re aware of how tragic you must look, panting and flushed above him, your hair a wild halo around your temples and neck.  
  
“I don’t know if you’ve been so good, beautiful,” he mutters against your hip bone, nipping you with his teeth hard enough to make you buck your hips towards him. 

“Good girls ask for what they want, don’t they baby?” His fingertips ghost the side of your lips, the featherlight touch making your legs quake beneath you. 

The stuttering words that leave your lips would, under any circumstances, make you want to curl up somewhere and hide, but the way his fingers are touching you is enough to break your thin will. 

“P-please touch me” you half beg, curling your toes against the soles of your boots, “please”

  
David hums from between your legs, hands skimming up the outside of your thighs before he bites the skin of your mound, swiping his tongue out as his teeth let go. 

His left hand runs along your hip bone, down the inside of your thigh, and up the length of your slit, fingertips barely spreading you apart. It’s sinful how wet you are, the cool air delicious against your heated skin where his fingers spread your wetness.

The moan that leaves your lips is utter filth as he wraps his lips around your clits and _ sucks _ , tongue swirling around you as you grip his hair with one hand and brace yourself against the wall with the other, rocking your hips into his face as he eats you out on his knees in a bathroom stall of the cinema.  
You’re well aware that you’re too loud, much too loud entirely, and it doesn’t help when he slides one finger up into you to the knuckle, curling it towards him as he searches for the sweet spot inside you.  
A couple seconds pass and then _ there _ , he’s found it, your legs wobbling from the discovery as you splutter like a fool above him.  
“F-fu-cking h-ell”

His right hand smooths along the skin of your thigh, sliding up the curve of your ass before his fingers dig into your flesh, pulling you tightly against his mouth as he all but eats the soul right out of you. Another finger joins the first, and the stretch is burning, all consuming _ goodness _ as you feel the telltale tightness building in your lower stomach.  
He’s playing you like a fiddle, the sensations so overwhelming you can barely stand it, trying to pull yourself backwards and away from the repeated curl of his fingers, the way his mouth doesn’t leave you, his breath hot against your skin where his nose is pressed against you.  
  
Your foot leaves it’s perch on the toilet as you back yourself up into the wall in two steps, and the torture comes with you, sliding on his knees across the floor, lifting your leg up onto his shoulder as he fucks you into a sobbing mess with his fingers and mouth.  
Whining desperately, you rock your hips forward into his mouth, his teeth grazing your oversensitive nerves.  
Fingers clenched into his hair, you come on his mouth so hard you’re certain the only reason you’re still standing it because of the way his muscled arms support you. His fingers keep up their delicious movement inside you, drawing your orgasm out, tension building inside you until you feel a hot splash against the inside of your thighs, your keening loud and echoing in the space of the bathroom, and you shove your hand into your mouth to quiet yourself as you ride out the aftershocks. 

  
David lowers your leg back down to the floor, making sure that you’re stable on your feet before he plants a kiss against the skin of your thigh and rising to his feet.  
His shirt is wet down the front, and you’re glistening on his chin.  
You’re still panting when you kiss him, the taste of you on his tongue as you let it invade your mouth, hands in his hair as you ask the question on everyone’s lips.  
“Your place or mine?”  
  
Buttons fly off your dress as he tears it open down to your belly button, his mouth a hot wet slide against your skin as he tries to unlock his front door with one hand and no eyes. Your breasts are spewing out of the top of your bra as he sucks brilliant purple marks on your skin, and you laugh loudly into the night air as snowflakes dust your hair and clothes.  
His teeth glint brilliantly in the lamplight as the door clicks open and he hoists you over his shoulder in an easy movement. The angle is perfect to reach both hands down to grope at his ass, earning yourself a sharp slap against the backs of your legs.  
David navigates the dark confines of his house easily, flicking a switch as he enters the bedroom and tossing you onto his bed. Small downlights come to life along the edges of the room, the light just enough to make out each other clearly.  
Silky cotton bedsheets underneath your fingertips is an erotisicm all of its own as he sets to work pulling your boots off your feet and running his mouth along your ankle and up your calf. Dress in tatters, you allow him to shred the rest, tearing it from belly to hem as you attempt to undo the buttons that line his shirt.  
You end up ripping the bottom three off as your impatience wins out, earning you a dark growl against your throat as he rocks his hips up into yours. You’re so wet that you’re starting to soak through the fabric of his pants as he rubs his length against you.  
Hands scrabble between you as you both reach down with one hand to undo his belt and slide it out of the loops of his dress pants, using your feet to push both his briefs and pants down his legs to his ankles so he can kick them off.  
He captures your lips in a searing kiss as you sit forward to undo the clasp on your bra, the material gliding down your arms before you fling it across the room.

The lighting and the way he’s looking at you makes you feel as if your entire life has been set outside and set alight, burning down to embers that collect in the hollow of your throat, your chest, your cunt.  
You bring two fingers to your arousal and smear it against your clit as he sits back on his knees to watch you work yourself up before he pulls your hand to his mouth to lick your taste off his fingers.  
The smirk he gives you makes your walls clench as you bring your eyes down to where he’s stroking his cock at the sight of you.  
Your mouth falls open as you take in the sheer _ size _ of him, fingertips barely touching around his girth. You spread your legs wider to make room for him between your thighs as he taps the tip of his cock against your over-sensitized clit, rubbing it up and down through your wetness.  
One hand props himself up beside your head as he slips the tip of his cock inside you, already stretching you out in a way that makes your head spin. It takes a couple of minutes before he’s fully seated inside you, his mouth a slack line across his face as you tilt your hips up to get a little more friction, one of his hands a bruising grip against your waist.

Your hair is a damp spread across your forehead and neck as he fucks you into his mattress, your right leg around his waist as he grips your left in a large hand, holding you open as he sinks his teeth into the flesh of your shoulder.  
Slick sounds fill the room along with your moans and the way he grunts and curses against your throat as you come around his length, tendons in your neck taut as you stretch your head back into the mattress.  
David brings one hand down to your slick overheated flesh, finding your clit with ease as he draws out your orgasm, the muscles in your legs clenching with each pulse your walls make around his thick length, and you’re still fluttering as he pulls out of you completely, turning you over onto your stomach.  
  
“How about we try something, hm?” he whispers into your ear, and you nod quickly, feeling the bed dip and move as he pushes himself off the mattress to search for something on the floor.  
Stiff leather scrapes across the skin of your ass, your brain quickly making the connection between leather and try something. _ His belt. _  
Looped over itself, the first crack against the back of your thighs is more noise than sting, a reverberating _ crack _ that seems to echo about the room repeatedly before he brings it down against your skin a second time.  
This lash hurts, the strike hitting you just beneath your cheeks, and the quick flash of pain makes your soaking cunt clench wildly as you wiggle backwards, offering the skin of your ass up as an offering to the chiseled god behind you. 

“Good?” he questions, one hand smoothing over your flushed skin. 

“So- so goo-d” you slur, wiggling your ass to him in earnest. 

“Please”

His belt comes down on your skin again, over and over, one of his hands smoothing the sting away with every second strike, the skin of your thighs and ass screaming in hypersensitivity as he drops the belt to the floor and leans down to press his lips against you softly, teeth grazing you as he sucks on your flesh gently.  
“Such a good girl,” he praises, voice gravelly as he positions himself behind you.  
Pushing your hips up into the air, you drop your chest to the bed in an attempt to get into the perfect position as his hands ghost up the backs of your legs to pinch the skin of your ass as he slides the tip of his cock into you.   
  
“Say my fucking name” he grunts.  
  
“Fuck,” you pant, “David!”  
  
“Again!” he demands, and you’re all too happy to oblige.  
  
“David!,” you all but scream, “fuck me!”  
  
Reaching down with one hand, he wraps your hair around his fist before he pulls you up off the bed, back still arched deeply as he holds you there.  
The way your hair is being pulled makes your eyes water, but the way he sinks his teeth back into your shoulder blade and sucks roughly makes your _ mouth _ water, one of your hands coming up to grip at his hair whilst he marks you violently from behind.  
He bottoms out inside you easily, his left hand gripping your hip tightly as he fucks into you roughly. You bring your fingers back down to your clit, tightness building in your stomach all too soon.  
“Fuck,” he groans out as you push your hips back into his, clenching yourself around his cock for the second time as he stills his hips and comes, cock pulsing as he spills himself inside you.  
His weight presses you down into the mattress, rolling onto his back and bringing you with him so you’re both facing the roof, both of your legs draped over his own as you try and catch your breath.  
The sound of panting breaths and the rustling of blankets is the only sound in the room before you break the silence with a gasping laugh.  
  
“My fucking dress,” you splutter, barely coherent, giggles turning into full blown laughter as you slide from the bed to hold up the torn fabric in front of you, “it’s ruined!”  
A hand reaches out to pull the offending garment to the floor, one finger trailing up through the combined cum that's spread over the inside of your thighs.  
“Not the only thing that’s ruined, beautiful,” his voice a perfect concoction of pride and exhaustion.  
Rolling your eyes, you move to pick up your dress again before his voice stops you in your tracks.  
  
“Stay”

Lifting your eyes up to his, he repeats himself to you with a smile. “Stay”  
His arm lifts the blankets beside him, “here”  
The decision is easy, and you slide your body into his bed, relaxing as he settles in behind you, one arm draped over you possessively.  
  
The sun wakes you hours later, when bed is empty and cold beside you, and you stretch out your sore muscles and reach down to the floor to scoop up your date’s ruined dress shirt and slide it over yourself, doing up as many buttons as are left on it.  
The smell of pastries and coffee wafts in on the air when the bedroom door swings open, knocking against the stopper loudly.  
Your tinder date is dressed in an oversized black knit jumper, blue jeans and a beanie as he grins at you from across the room, hands full with coffee and bags.  
He sets the cup tray and bags on the end of the bed before he removes his beanie, all smiles and tousled hair.  
The contrast between the soft brown bags and the dark blue of his bedsheets is striking, a little island of sustenance and pleasure, and you can’t help but think of how absolutely _ instagramable _ the image is.  
David pushes another bag towards you before tearing the bags open down the middle, creating makeshift plates for the pastries he’s bought before sliding one over towards you.  
Slipping your hand inside the bag you draw out a dress the same colour of green grapes, simple in its cut and fit.  
Glancing across to the greek god before you, you catch the twitch of his lips as he pretends not to notice your gaping mouth.  
“Is this-”  
“It’s to replace the one I tore off you, yes” he answers, coffee cup half raised to his lips.  
His response brokers no argument, and you tuck the fabric up under your chin. “Thank-you”  
You chat back and forth as you eat, laughing and trading stories about your lives and quickly realising that you both have a lot more in common than you originally thought.  
As the conversation dwindles between you into nothing, the silence is soft and gentle, setting you at ease despite being in an almost strangers house.  
David breaks the silence after a few moments, voice gentle and full of anticipation.  
  
“So, does this mean I qualify for a second date?”  



End file.
